


We Are

by Innibis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, first person what was i thinking, written long ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 10:04:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14830232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Innibis/pseuds/Innibis
Summary: The Weasley's come together to mourn one of their own





	We Are

**Author's Note:**

> Putting the blame squarely on recent conversations with other old school shippers that made me want to possibly start writing again after 72 years off, but in the meantime I'm moving stuff over from LJ. For posterity I guess? It was a miracle I remembered that account’s password. . .

I lay in the dark, listening to the even breathing of the one I love best, just feeling. His long, contrary length rests firmly against my own, hard and soft, vulnerable and so damn strong it hurts to be near him sometimes. I feel the silk of skin over firm muscle as my hand rests on his heart, trying to gain comfort from the determined, rhythmic thump.

He sleeps. My love sleeps. And we are not so far removed from our nightmares that I don’t appreciate the peace. The still new familiarity of Harry’s body is not enough to content me tonight. This may be the first time since I met him that Harry is not what I need.

I gently ease back so as not to disturb him. It is no small miracle that his sleep is untroubled. I stand in shadow, watching. A small finger of murky moonlight trespasses on his shoulder blade and I cannot resist leaning down to press a soft kiss to that highlighted expanse of flesh.

I straighten up and pull on a discarded pair of jeans and grab a shirt from the floor, taking in a long breath as I pull it over my head. It smells like Harry. Looking back once more at my peaceful boy, I reluctantly leave our cocoon.

Moving down these steps of my childhood, I pass the rooms of my siblings, touching each closed door as I pass it. Willing the past occupants from a less complicated time to come out and play. I pause at only one door, the one that had usually been shut to me, except for when I was needed for experiments. That wasn’t so long ago, not really. But time plays tricks when lives are lost and freedom is found. Time doesn’t move in structured lines, but winds around us, aging, moving quickly here and stopping suddenly there, until you can’t tell where you are anymore.

Once in the living room, I stoke the fire and settle into Dad’s armchair. The night is warm, but the flames, in their redness, keep me company.

I don’t know how long I sit there when the fire rushes up and Bill spins into the room. We don’t speak. He crosses to sit on the floor in front of my chair, leaning his head back against my folded legs with a sigh. I shift enough to rest a hand on his shoulder.

Ginny appears in the doorway and my heart, already heavy, stutters a little. It hasn’t been easy between us lately. To be honest, we haven’t been easy for years now. Not since we have both wanted Harry, and definitely not after he chose me. But we love each other. I know that. There is only one thing in the world that I would not do for her, and that’s the one thing she wants. Still, the hostility has never been outright, not even at its worst. I hold out a hand, and she comes to us, moving to sit on the arm of the chair. She leans over to kiss Bill on the top of his head and then, hesitating only a second, she lets herself slide sideways onto me.

I hadn’t realized that I missed this, the casual, touching affection of my little sister. She rests her head on my chest, dangling her long legs over one arm of the chair while resting her back on the other. My free arm, the one not holding onto the anchor of my eldest brother circles her waist and she smiles at me, sadly, but without bitterness.

Charlie is next from down the stairs, followed closely by Percy. Charlie leans against the couch, straightening his legs to intersect them with Bill’s. Percy chooses to lie flat out on the floor, head resting on Charlie’s leg. We still do not speak. We wait for one more.

And then, as we knew he would, George appears in the fire. He had not wanted to stay at the Burrow tonight, not because of a wife and child just a grate away, but because, on the eve of the first anniversary of his twin’s death, he had not wanted to be comforted. He had not wanted to see anybody. There would be enough people to see in the morning.

Still, there is something in the air that calls to us. The heady scent of sorrow lures us from our beds as powerfully as Mum’s cooking and we find ourselves here, ready to eat. George looks at us all, the pile of Weasleys on the floor, the pile of Weasleys on the chair, and he sits next to Charlie, bending his knees over Percy’s middle. He smiles as Charlie roughly lays an arm across his shoulder. We all do.

To the tune of my brother’s eulogy, we had rebuilt our lives, repaired our buildings, we had celebrated with food and drink, with family and friends and even complete strangers. While still in mourning, I had found that my greatest joys and challenges came not in the rise and fall of dark lords, but in the certainty in Harry’s eyes before he kissed me. Yet, in the dark of my room tonight, even with Harry in my bed, all I had been able to see was Fred in the rubble, the casket, my mother’s broken eyes, my father’s broken smile and George’s broken heart. Our grief is forever tainted by victory. Sugar added to bitter chocolate, making the black slide of sadness down the throat ever so slightly sweet. More palatable. Adulterated.

But here? Well, here I am amongst my own, belonging to them like I belong to no one else, mourning with them in a way only we will every fully understand. We are Molly and Arthur’s children. We grew up poor with an elite pedigree, blood traitors in a pure blood family. We were born at the end of a war and raised in the eye of a storm. We had played Quidditch with fallen apples and half-broken brooms, we had swum in the pond and tossed garden gnomes, we made fun of Mum’s temper and Dad’s curiosity. We have quarreled and come together again and again and fought to the death for a better world. We have moved on from The Burrow, become important in other circles, made homes in other places, we love and are loved by other people, but we remain grounded in each other. We are one less, but not one forgotten. And I can nearly see Fred. Not as that dead, sightless thing. Not in that body that is no longer my brother, but here, in this room full of memory. I can see him with his back resting against George’s side, smiling with us as the silence is broken.

We are speaking. Half in laughter, half in tears as we talk about our genius, pain in the arse of a brother. A year gone, he is with us, a part of us during the hours before the sun rises. Before we have to share our grief with the world’s celebration we are able to share our Fred with each other.

We speak of Fred, and only of Fred. Not of the triumph. Not of the rebuilding. Not about Death Eaters. Not even about our Savior. Our sorrow is our own and we feed on it, this self-centered emotion. We wallow in a feast of aching hearts and glory in the deep seeded knowledge that this is life at its most basic and beautiful and terrible. 

We shift positions throughout the night, rolling on the floor in giggle fits, hugging each other in grief and, finally, resting quietly, falling into sleep one by one.

Right before the sun rises, I feel a hand on my arm. I roll over, blink open bleary, tear-tired eyes. He is crouching beside me, hair everywhere, mouth twitching, eyes weary and wary and old. I can only imagine what we must look like, packed into too little space as snugly as puppies in a pile. Until I had rolled over, my face had been pressed firmly into Percy’s back.

Harry shakes his head, and I feel a surge of guilt that he had woken up alone on this day. I frown and struggle to sit up, but he only smiles, sweet in his sadness, and tucks himself into my side, arm crossing over me, head in its rightful place on my shoulder with his face buried in my neck. I feel his open mouth press against me, warm air fogging over my throat. His teeth sink in briefly, and my head shoots up at the unexpected intrusion of pointed reality on sleep blurred skin. I feel his lips curve up as he holds me closer. “I love you” he murmurs, face still hidden.

“Love you too.” I reply. Wrapping one arm under and around Harry, and placing one hand on Percy’s back, I almost hear Fred’s laughter as the world falls away.


End file.
